PR 
PICT 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  HUMANE  WORKERS'  SOCIETY 
ERIE,  PENNSYLVANIA 


IDLE  HOUR3 

.NO.  8771. 


PRISON  PO 

PICTURES  AM*  S 


Copyright,  1912 
BY  EDWARD  L,. 


Pi 


PRISON  POEMS,  PICTURES 
AND  STORIES 


1,3 


PREFACE  AND  EXPLANATION. 

A  man  is  selfish  who  devotes  all  his  time  to  expressing 
his  own  feelings.  A  great  Painter  or  Poet  is  selfish  if  he 
devotes  his  entire  time  to  expressing  his  feelings  on  canvas 
or  in  verse.  We  owe  the  world  something  beside  self- 
delineated  feelings  and  our  friends,  we  owe  them  all — 

What  care  I  for  worldly  gain 

For  me  alone  a  crust  will  do 
Should  I  some  power  or  wealth  attain 

Dear  friend — 'twill  be  for  you. 

The  author  of  these  little  poems  and  pictures  is  quite 
aware  of  their  crudeness,  nor  does  he  intend  devoting  his 
time  to  the  like — there  are  other  things  too  well  worth  while — 

These  little  poems  and  painted  flowers  * 
Are  but  the  product  of  my  idle  hours; 
Far  greater  things  have  I  in  view 
And  having  will  the  aim  pursue. 
So  you  may  laugh  and  turn  away, 
But  I — perhaps  will  laugh  another  day. 


*  In  printing  the  book  the  expense  of  reproducing  the  flowers 
was  too  great. 


257899 


PRISON      POEMS. 
AN  APPEAL  AND  A  STORY. 


This  little  book  not  only  contains  poems  but  information  on  the 
subject  at  hand.  Somehow  I  feel  that  you  will  be  interested  in  this 
subject. 

Never  have  the  American  people  been  given  anything  so  different 
from  the  ordinary  line  of  reading  matter.  Not  that  it  is  better  written 
or  classic,  but  because  of  its  simplicity  and  sincerity.  The  writer 
feels  that  the  expression  is  somewhat  crude.  It  is  an  honest  effort 
of  a  convict  to  better  his  condition  while  still  in  prison  and  his 
struggle  after  his  discharge. 

It  deals  with  the  terrible  condition  and  odds  the  writer  had  to 
fight  against  in  order  to  survive  and  live  up  to  a  good  moral  standard. 
It  touches  on  the  awful  condition  in  our  prisons  and  in  some  measure 
my  change  your  conception  of  the  man  behind  the  bars. 

The  writer  earnestly  begs  you  to  co-operate  with  him  in  circulat 
ing  this  little  work. 

When  you  write  to  your  friends  won't  you  tell  them  about  the 
little  book  and  "The  Humane  Workers'  Society"  which  aims  to 
better  the  awful  condition  that  endangers  our  homes  and  lives  and 
the  future  welfare  of  our  children? 

Won't  you  help  me  start  this  movement  by  passing  the  word 
around  among  your  friends?  I  want  to  make  amend  for  the  past  and 
I  can  do  it  better  by  bettering  the  condition  you  all  know  to  exist  in 
every  city  and  town  in  America — that  leads  the  boys  and  girls  astray; 
to  disgrace  and  shame. 

I  do  not  look  for  any  reward  either  in  this  world  or  the  next 
one.  I  seek  to  make  amend.  My  reward  will  be  in  doing  good  because 
it's  good  to  do  good. 

The  greatest  pleasure  of  my  life  is  in  helping  the  poor  deluded 
boys  and  girls  who  wander  away  from  home  seeking  that  which  they 
can  never  find  apart  from  that  home,  and,  failing,  become  despondent 
and  seek  relief  in  that  awful  life  that  leads  to  prison  and  ill-fame. 

Then  there  are  the  boys  and  girls  who  have  no  home,  who  are  cast 
out  into  the  cold  world  at  an  early  age  to  struggle  alone,  to  sink  or 
swim. 

Oh,  how  my  heart  goes  out  to  these  children  of  misfortune — I 
was  one  of  them.  I  can  feel  as  they  feel  and  have  suffered  as  they 
suffer.  Every  one  would  have  been  better  boys  and  girls  had  some 
one  cared  for  them. 

Won't  you  help  me  help  them?  You  who  have  comfortable  homes 
and  loved  ones.  They  might  have  been  your  dear  ones.  This  little 

—  4  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

book  is  my  only  means  of  getting  my  message  to  you.  Won't  you 
send  the  message  along  to  others?  It  will  be  so  much  easier  than  the 
way  I  have  had  to  go  in  order  that  I  may  send  the  message  out  to  you. 

You  have  organizations,  societies  and  churches  and  they  are  doing 
good,  but  don't  you  think  one  who  has  been  down  in  the  places  of 
those  you  seek  to  aid,  and  who  has  risen  up,  can  do  more  to  raise 
these  wayward  children.  Knowing  the  conditions  that  made  them 
what  they  are,  do  you  not  think  the  writer  can  do  more  to  remove 
them  than  people  who  never  suffered — who  cannot  feel  and  under 
stand? 

I  wish  I  could  send  every  person  in  the  world  one  of  these  little 
books,  but  I  am  poor.  Many,  many  days  the  little  girl  (who  has 
sacrificed  so  much  for  me)  and  I  have  gone  hungry  and  slept  cold. 
She  gave  up  a  home  of  luxury  and  wealth  to  share  my  lot  and  help 
me  in  my  work. 

It  is  through  the  good  will  of  a  few  generous  hearted  people 
that  I  am  able  to  furnish  you  with  this  little  book.  Won't  you  help 
them  in  helping  me  to  help  others? 

Let  me  tell  you  a  little  story,  and  if  any  one  doubts  it,  I  will 
refer  them  to  an  institution  that  will  substantiate  it,  at  least  in  part, 
if  not  all. 

The  little  fellow  I  mention  had  been  kicked  out  into  the  cold 
world  one  evening  in  early  Spring  to  shift  for  himself  at  the  age 
of  twelve. 

For  days  he  wandered  about  in  the  woods  and  country,  working 
where  he  could  for  something  to  eat,  often  without  food  for  two 
days  at  a  time;  sleeping  where  he  could — in  barns  or  straw  stacks. 

One  evening  he  strayed  into  a  little  town  hungry  and  cold.  It 
had  been  raining  and  the  little  fellow  was  soaked  through.  At  a 
baker  shop  some  kind  lady  had  given  him  some  rolls.  With  the 
bag  of  rolls  tucked  under  his  little  wet  coat  he  wandered  down  the 
street  till  he  found  a  hallway  that  offered  him  the  shelter  he  sought. 
Here  he  would  spend  the  evening.  Outside  the  storm  came  up  in  all 
its  fury.  As  he  sat  eating  his  rolls  he  heard  a  whining,  then  a  yelp 
from  the  street.  In  a  moment  the  little  fellow  was  out  in  the  rain. 
Somehow  he  knew  it  was  a  cry  of  distress. 

Oh,  my  dear  readers,  whatever  you  may  think  of  this  story  will 
not  change  its  truth.  'Tis  true  I  have  elaborated  in  its  telling,  but 
could  you  see  the  little  boy  as  he  reaches  down  into  the  gutter  and 
picks  up  that  poor  little  puppy-dog  that  was  battling  with  the  wind 
and  rain,  hungry  and  cold — so  weak  it  could  not  crawl  out  of  the 
gutter.  Half  drowned  and  starved  he  carried  it  into  the  hallway. 

Oh,  how  he  nestled  it  to  his  little  lonely  heart.  It  was  just  a  tiny 
thing,  only  a  few  weeks  old,  but  it  was  a  creature  in  distress  and  he 

—  5  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

shared  his  rolls.  The  poor  little  puppy  was  so  weak  from  hunger  that 
it  could  not  swallow  and  choked.  The  little  boy  had  to  put  his 
finger  in  the  little  fellow's  throat  and  remove  the  half-chewed  bread. 
Like  a  mother  feeds  her  baby,  and  as  tender,  did  the  little  twelve  year 
old  boy  chew  the  pieces  of  rolls  first  and  give  it  to  the  pup,  so  that 
he  could  swallow  it. 

As  they  lay  together  in  the  hallway,  the  boy  could  feel  his 
little  companion  shiver.  The  hall  was  good  enough  for  him,  but  his 
friend  was  cold  and  they  must  find  some  warmer  place  to  sleep. 
So  he  took  the  little  fellow  in  his  arms  and  wandered  out  into  the  rain. 
In  an  alley  he  found  a  barndoor  unlocked.  Softly  he  crept  in.  It  was 
dark,  but  he  found  the  manger  and  there  he  and  his  little  friend  curled 
up  and  were  soon  asleep;  nor  was  it  so  uncomfortable  either.  But 
the  man  came  and  found  them  in  the  morning.  He  kicked  the  little 
boy  and  dog  out  into  the  alley. 

That  man  was  meaner  than  that  little  boy  ever  was  and  he  has 
been  in  prison  twice  and  deserved  to  go  there  both  times — tho' 
I  do  expect  the  man  deserved  to  go  there  instead,  for  he  was 
responsible  for  the  boy's  going  there. 

That  man  professed  to  be  a  Christian  and  if  he  is  living  now  and 
should  run  across  this  little  book,  I  wish  to  say — You  were  an  old 
hypocrite  and  it's  your  kind  that  make  conditions  that  make  criminals. 

A  man  don't  steal  for  the  fun  of  it.  Neither  does  he  steal  because 
he  likes  to  steal.  He  steals  by  force  of  circumstances  and  certain 
conditions  make  these  circumstances,  and  certain  kinds  of  society 
and  people  make  these  conditions. 

Would  Christ  kick  a  little  orphan  boy  and  dog  out  into  an  alley 
because  he  slept 411  a  manger?  No,  and  he  won't  let  an  old  hypocrite 
spend  eternity  in  paradise  who  wouldn't  let  a  little  boy  and  dog 
sleep  in  a  manger. 

What  I  tell  you  is  the  truth,  though  it  may  be  expressed  in  a  crude 
way.  I  haven't  meant  to  bore  you,  and  instead  of  telling  you  my  life's 
history  in  this  little  book,  I  present  you  with  little  pictures,  poems 
and  sketches  of  life — hoping  it  will  change  your  conception  of  those 
behind  the  bars  and  those  living  lives  of  ill  fame. 

After  all  they  are  our  brothers  and  sisters  and  though  we  may 
not  help  them  so  much,  we  can  better  conditions  that  made  them  so 
and  make  the  way  clearer  for  the  coming  generations. 

Won't  you  help  me  in  this  work?  Won't  you  tell  your  friends 
about  this  little  book? 

Very  sincerely, 

EDWARD   L.  ALLEN, 
The  Humane  Workers'  Society,  Erie,  Pa. 

P.  S. — I  was  the  little  boy. 


PRISON      POEMS. 


JUST  A  CHILD. 


'Twas  just  a  child 

That  came  and  smiled — 
Smiled  through  the  steel-chilled  bars; 

The  smile  it  stole 

Into  my  soul, 
There  beams  like  a  thousand  stars. 

This  child  of  love 

Like  the  stars  above, 
With  its  beaming,  smiling  face, 

So  sweet  and  kind, 

Shall  ever  find 
In  my  heart  a  resting  place. 

Ever  as  I  dwell 

In  my  dreary  cell 
My  thoughts  shall  be  of  you, 

Sweet  little  child 

That  came  and  smiled, 
With  eyes  so  soft  and  blue. 


PRISON      POEMS. 


AN   EXPLANATION— A   MAN    AND    A    DOG. 


This  little  child  accomplished  more  with  a  smile  than  all  the  laws 
and  religions  in  this  world  did  by  force  and  superstitution — caused 
me  to  think;  awoke  in  me  the  good  there  is  in  every  man. 
Reformed  me. 

What  that  smile  did  for  me,  it  will  do  for  thousands  in  our 
prisons  today — I  know,  I  was  there.  I  once  thought  and  felt  as  these 
men  do.  I  know  their  longings,  emotions  and  desires.  Hundreds 
would  never  have  become  convicts  had  some  one  cared. 

A  smile,  a  kind  word  or  a  letter  from  some  one,  would  do  what 
the  Law,  the  Church  and  society  have  not  and  cannot  do — make  good 
citizens  of  these  men. 

A  man  who  was  electrocuted  for  murder  in  Columbus,  Ohio, 
and  who  was  once  a  prison  mate  of  mine,  said  to  me:  "Tomorrow 
I  shall  be  free,  but  what  have  I  to  live  for,  not  even  a  yellow  dog 
cares  for  me.  I  never  knew  a  mother  or  a  father.  No  one  ever 
loved  me.  Once  a  lady  who  passed  through  the  county  jail  spoke  to 
me  and  smiled.  God,  how  I  loved  that  woman!  it  is  the  only  thing  I 
have  had  to  hold  on  to  during  these  long  years.  Tomorrow  I'm  free! 
I  shall  go  to  work,  and  if  they  will  let  me,  be  a  man.  He  tried.  He 
worked  like  a  slave.  He  had  one  little  friend,  a  stray  dog  he  had 
picked  up  on  the  streets. 

One  night  some  one  was  held  up  and  robbed — he  had  been 
sent  to  prison  for  a  similar  crime.  The  police  discovered  his  past. 
He  was  innocent,  but  that  did  not  matter.  Circumstances  were 
against  him.  He  had  two  hundred  and  forty  dollars.  The  man  had 
been  robbed  of  three  hundred  dollars.  He  lived  in  a  house  with  only 
his  little  friend,  the  dog. 

He  was  sent  to  prison  again.  Before  he  was  taken  away,  he 
requested  to  see  his  "little  friend."  The  police  laughed  at  him. 

The  night  he  was  arrested  the  little  dog  had  followed  him  to  the 
police  station  and  hung  about  until  the  police  had  given  it  to  the 
"Dog  Catcher,"  who  drowned  it. 

So  when  he  asked  to  see  his  little  friend,  they  told  him,  "Why,  it 
hung  around  here  till  we  got  tired  of  it,  and  we  sent  it  to  the  pond." 


PRISON      POEMS. 

That  man  became  a  confirmed  criminal  in  less  than  a  minute. 
When  he  was  discharged  from  prison,  he  went  out  with  murder  in 
his  heart. 

He  was  electrocuted  for  killing  some  police  official  in  Ohio  and  I 
believe  had  killed  several  before  they  caught  him. 

He  died  with  a  smile  on  his  face,  and  his  last  thought  was  for 
his  little  friend — the  stray  dog. 

On  the  walls  of  his  cell  they  found  written  in  lead  pencil: 

"I  loved  you,  oh  I  loved  you,  and  I  have  avenged  your  death — 
soon  I  will  join  you  in  the  great  unknown.  You  were  but  a  dog  but 
you  were  dearer  to  me  than  any  human  being  I  ever  knew.  I  know 
you  waited  outside  the  police  station  for  me.  Your  little  heart  was 
loyal  till  death.  You  died  for  me  and  so  I  shall  die  for  you.  If  there 
is  a  God  in  Heaven  He  is  a  just  God  and  I  believe  we  shall  meet 
again.  From  'JIMMY'  to  PAL." 

I  knew  this  man  and  what  the  world  may  think  I  care  not.  In 
my  eyes  he  shall  always  remain  a  hero.  Not  because  he  murdered 
several  human  beings — that  was  wrong — but  because  he  died  for  a 
friend.  His  mind  was  misdirected  and  wrong — terribly  so.  That  same 
something  which  caused  Paul  Jones  to  lash  himself  to  the  mast,  was 
the  same  something  that  caused  this  man  to  die  for  his  little  friend. 

I  shall  treasure  this  man's  memory  because  of  his  loyalty  and  fine 
spirit  shown  in  the  words  written  upon  the  walls  of  his  death  chamber. 

"By  your  faith  you  shall  be  saved."  If  there  is  a  Heaven  beyond 
this  earth  and  any  of  us  ever  get  there,  we  shall  find  a  man  and  a  dog. 


Those  evening  stars,  those  evening  stars, 
I  watch  from  behind  the  prison  bars, 
And  as  they  gleam  from  their  far-off  clime 
I  know,  I  know  it's  Christmas  time; 
Christmas  time,  but  not  for  those 
Behind  the  iron  barred  gate; 
Once  within  few  find  repose 

And  no  one  knows  his  fate. 


—  9 


PRISON      POEMS. 
THE  FACE  IN  CHAPEL. 


One  look  from  your  bright  eyes, 

Sweet  maiden  fair, 
Has  stole  into  my  heart 

And  laid  a  treasure  there. 

Before  you  came  all  was  dark 

Within  my  lonely  cell, 
But  now  it  is  a  heavenly  place, 

Whereas  it  was  a  Hell. 

No  words  spoke  those  charming  lips, 
Nor  would  I  have  them  speak, 

But  fain  would  paint  upon  my  heart 
The  rosebuds  on  your  cheek. 

Your  hair,  all  waving,  golden  bright, 
Your  eyes,  so  heavenly  blue, 

Engrave  upon  my  famished  heart 
An  image  fair  of  you. 

And  oh,  fair  maid,  if  you  but  knew 
How  longs  my  starving  heart, 

Our  flitting  souls  that  came  so  near 
Would  never  stray  apart. 

And  as  I  dwell,  sweet  maiden  fair, 

Within  my  walled  abode 
Sweet  thoughts  of  you  shall  ease  the  weight 

Of  my  remorseful  load. 

My  aching,  famished  heart  doth  pine 

For  you  fair  maiden  sweet, 
And  while  I  wish  we'd  never  met 

I  pray  that  we  may  meet. 

And  now,  fair  maid,  somewhere  doth  dwell 

A  soul  that  matcheth  mine, 
And  sweet  maid  if  you  but  knew 

That  soul  it  may  be  thine. 

AN  EXPLANATION. 

The   "Face  in   Chapel"  was  written  after   religious   services   one 
Sunday  morning  in  the  author's  lonely  cell.    It  expresses  the  longing, 

—  10  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

burning  desire  of  a  lonely  heart  for  a  little  human,  kindness — a  little 
love. 

There  she  was,  the  new  organist,  a  beautiful  girl  with  her  sweet 
young  soul  shining  out  from  kind  blue  eyes. 

Those  eyes  did  more  to  reform  the  prisoners  in  that  dreary  old 
prison  than  all  its  laws  and  rules  ever  did. 

Men  who  had  been  unruly,  men  the  guards  could  not  control, 
became  as  meek  as  lambs.  Every  one  had  something  to  look  forward 
to — the  Sunday  services  and  the  Face  in  Chapel. 


OH,    FREEDOM    DAYS. 


Oh  freedom  days, 

Sweet  freedom  days, 
How  in  my  heart  your  treasure  lays, 
And  round  my  life  your  memory  clings, 
Sweet  hope  of  love  and  freedom  brings 
Of  better  life  and  better  things, 

Sweet  freedom  days, 

Oh,  freedom  days, 
How  in  my  heart  your  treasure  lays. 

Oh,  sunny  rays, 

Sweet  sunny  rays, 
Reminding  me  of  freedom  days 
In  woodland  bowers  of  shady  trees, 
Waving  in  the  summer's  breeze, 
Oh,  let  me  feed  my  soul  on  these 

Sweet  sunny  rays, 

Oh,  Sunny  rays, 
Reminding  me  of  freedom  days. 

Liberty,  how  sweet, 

Oh,  how  sweet; 

Without  thee  life  is  not  complete, 
Goal  of  every  toiling  slave, 
Hope  of  every  fettered  knave, 
Without  thee  I  would  gladly  brave 
The  shadow  of  a  dreaded  grave. 

Oh,  how  sweet, 

Liberty,  how  sweet; 
Without  thee  life  is  not  complete. 

—  11  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 
TO  A  FRIEND. 


The  morn  is  fair,  the  sun  is  bright, 

Each  little  tiny  ray 
Peeps  in  to  help  me  write 

The  words  I  cannot  say. 

But,  while  I  cannot  speak,  my  friend, 
My  heart  and  hands  are  free; 

And  so  with  "hope"  I  gladly  sent 
This  down  to  Fifty-three. 

And  oh,  my  friend,  could  I  impart 

One  little  word  of  cheer 
To  ease  the  aching  of  your  heart, 

'Twill  make  my  own  less  drear. 

The  greatest  tribute  I  can  pay 
To  you,  my  dearest  friend, 

Is  to  help  you  wile  the  hours  away 
That  seem  to  have  no  end. 

To  help  dispel  the  silent  gloom 

Around  your  lonely  cell, 
And  call  to  mind  the  sweet  perfume 

Of  some  fair  flowery  dell. 

To  take  you,  tho'  but  in  a  dream, 
Far  from  the  clanging  bell 

And  wander  by  some  woodland  stream 
With  some  fair,  bonny  belle. 

And  oh,  my  friend,  your  sunny  smile 
Doth  make  my  heart  beat  glad, 

And  midst  the  gloom,  the  low  and  vile, 
It  cheers  me  when  I'm  sad. 

Could  you  command  a  golden  tide 
To  flow  beneath  my  tread, 

I'd  gladly  cast  the  gold  aside 
And  take  the  smile  instead. 

—  12  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 


YET,  I  AM  FREE. 


Tho'  I  may  sad  and  longing  dwell 
An  occupant  of  a  lonely  cell, 
Where  clangs  the  prison  bell 
And  men  bid  hope  farewell, 

Yet,  I  am  free. 

Free  to  roam  at  large  and  will 
In  woodlands  cool  and  still, 
Or  down  some  sloping  hill 
Where  winds  the  rippling  rill 

Towards  the  sea. 

Or  linger  by  some  farm  and  gaze 
Across  the  ripening  fields  of  maize, 
Where  beams  the  soothing  sunny  rays 
Enjoying  life  a  thousand  ways — 

For  I  am  free; 

Or  hide  me  in  some  shady  nook 
Beside  some  sparkling  running  brook, 
W7ith  pole  and  line  or  pip^  and  book, 
Fast  beating  heart  and  eyes  that  look 

And  fondly  see. 

Free  to  roam  this  glorious  earth, 
To  get  from  life  what  life  is  worth, 
And  love  the  mother  that  gave  me  birth, 
Greeting  friends  with  friendly  mirth, 
And  they  greet  me ; 

—  13  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

Clang,  clang,  sounds  the  prison  bell, 
Echoing  the  awfulness  of  its  knell 
To  every  crouching  prisoner's  cell, 
Where  all  is  dark  and  life  is  Hell, 
Yet,  I  am  free. 

Free,  ah,  you  cannot  understand 
Why  bolts  and  bars  respond  to  my  command 
Why  walls  fade  or  turn  to  crumbling  sand 
And  flowers  spring  forth  on  every  hand 

To  greet  me; 

Why  I  escape  my  living  tombs 
Leaving  behind  the  prison  gloom 
And  bask  in  sun  and  sweet  perfume 
Where  maidens  walk  and  flowers  bloom 

To  meet  me. 

My  keepers — and  fine  fellows,  they, 
With  suits  of  blue  and  hats  of  grey, 
Shake  their  heads  and  sadly  say, 
"We'll  give  the  fool  another  day 

With  the  rules" ; 
Clang,  clang,  that  awful  sound 
Breaks  the  silence  all  around, 
My  Keepers — they  so  gaily  gowned — 
Stretch  their  limbs  and  look  profound — 

Ah,  poor  fools ! 

I  care  not  how  much  fun  they  make, 
Nor  why  they  laugh  at  me — 
I'll  keep  on  pounding  till  I  wake 
The  God  of  Liberty. 


—  14  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 
POEM  TO  A  FRIEND. 


Time  has  no  beginning  nor  has  an  end — 

'Tis  ever  on  the  fly — 
And  if  we'll  but  hope  and  wait,  dear  friend, 

Some  day  we'll  say  good-bye. 

Good-bye  to  the  lonely  prison  cell, 
Where  life  at  its  best  is  drear, 

Where  walls  and  bars  turn  earth  to  Hell, 
And  bravest  hearts  to  fear. 

But,  dear  friend,  we'll  not  give  up, 
Tho'  time  we  cannot  haste; 

Ere  long  we'll  sip  life  from  another  cup 
That  has  no  bitter  taste. 

Ah,  life  is  swet,  dear  friend,  ah,  sweet, 

When  free  to  live  and  love 
The  friends  that  you  and  I  shall  meet 

Where  skies  are  blue  above. 


OUR   FLAG   OF  HOPE. 


I  look  out  through  the  cold  steel  prison  bars 
O'er  the  hills  of  pain  and  toil, 

And  there  see  shining  like  the  Heavenly  stars 
A  flag  of  hope  on  freedom's  soil. 

And  oh,  my  friend,  that  flag  of  Hope 

It  waves  for  you  and  mee 
As  we  go  toiling  up  the  slope 

That  leads  to  liberty. 

And  dear  friend,  tho'  the  way  be  drear, 
Don't  let  your  heart  give  way, 

But  think  of  the  future  fair  and  clear 
The  dawning  of  a  brighter  day. 

Ah,  think  when  first  the  rising  sun 

Beams  on  our  flag  of  Hope  and  cheer, 

'Tis  then,  dear  friend,  the  battle's  won 
And  we've  no  more  to  fear. 

Our  flag  of  Hope,  dear  friend,  is  love, 

Love  of  home  and  liberty — 
All  nature  beneath  the  stars  above 

That  shine  on  you  and  me. 
—  16  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

TO  MY  FRIENDS  IN  FIFTY-THREE. 

The  truth,  dear  friends,  are  in  these  words, 
I  was  punished  for  feeding  the  little  birds 

Around  by  lonely  cell. 

Although  my  own  meals  are  scant  and  spare, 
With  these  little  friends  the  crumbs  I  always  share 

And  for  this  kind  act  I  suffer  Hell. 
But  there,  I'll  not  give  way,  but  all  the  firmer  be, 
And  while  I  cannot  feed  the  birds,  I'll  love  the  more 

My  friends  in  Fifty-three. 

Ah,  dear  friends  in  Fifty-three, 
I  wonder  if  you  thought  of  me, 

Hanging  to  the  iron-barred  door. 
No  keener  pain  can  human  feel 
Than  when  wrists  are  bound  with  band  of  steel 

And  all  is  silence  and  your  heart  is  sore ; 
But  there,  dear  friends  on  Gallery  Two, 
All  the  while  I  thought  of  you. 

Altho'  my  weary  flesh  and  bone 

Were  incased  in  iron  and  steel  and  stone 

My  heart  and  mind  were  free ; 
So  while  the  irons  bound  each  aching  wrist 
My  mind  pierced  through  the  gloomy  mist 

To  my  friends  in  Fifty-three; 
Ah,  dear  friends,  don't  let  your  heart  give  way, 
Be  thankful  for  the  prospect  of  a  brighter  day. 

But  come,  dear  friends,  let's  cheat  them  all — 
The  lonely  cell,  the  shackles,  the  prison  wall — 

We're  off  on  freedom's  wing 
To  where  the  air  is  cool  and  pure  and  sweet, 
Where  flowers  grow  and  lovers  meet, 

And  wild  birds  sing; 

Ah,  dear  friends,  tho'  hard  our  lot  may  seem, 
We  make  it  all  the  easier  when  we  dream. 

So  come,  let's  dream  we're  free — 
You  leave  behind  old  Fifty-three, 

I'll  cast  the  irons  away; 

We're  off  to  where  the  fragrant,  sweet  perfume 
Comes  from  the  flowers  as  the  bloom, 

And  it's  a  sunny  summer's  day ; 
But  ah,  dear  friends,  this  wretched  woe 
Is  but  a  shadow  on  the  pleasures  we'll  really  know. 

—  17  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 


SHE  MEANT  THE  KISSES. 


O'er  the  wall  and  to  my  lonely  cell 

Comes  the  fragrance  of  some  flowery  dell 

To  tell  me  spring  is  here  with  its  balmy  breeze 

To  clothe  in  green  the  fields  and  trees. 

Ah,  well  I  recall  the  pastures  green 

With  lanes  and  woodlands  in  between 

Where  waving  in  the  meadows,  to  and  fro, 

The  goldenrods  and  thistles  grow, 

Where  Johnny-jump-ups — ah,  surely  "Fay," 

You  remember  hearing  some  dear  maiden  say 

Now  "Fay  Up" — that  wasn't  square, 

I  won't  play  unless  you  play  fair — 

Seems   queer  that   I   should  know   all   this 

How,  when  she  stooped  to  pluck  another  you  stole  a  kiss. 

Well,  in  those  days,  you  see,  we  both  were  boys, 

And  I  suppose  what  we  do  in  Maine  you  do  in  Illinois. 

At  any  rate,  I  know  I  used  to  cheat, 

And  no  kiss  since  then  was  half  so  sweet; 

You  know  each  purple  stemless  head 

Stood  for  a  kiss  or  a  stick  of  gum  instead. 

Well,    I    remember   on    one    occasion,    when 

I  had  sixty-two  and  she  had  ten; 

And  of  course,  because  I  had  the  largest  sum 

I  thought  I  wouldn't  have  to  buy  the  chewing  gum; 

You  understand,  dear  friend,  of  course  you  do, 

After  buying  her  ten,  I'd  still  have  fifty-two ; 

Well,  this  shows  I  didn't  know  these  country  Misses — 

She  spunks  right  up  and  says,  "you  take  your  kisses," 

And  when  I  had  reached  the  total  sum, 

She  says,  "come  on  and  buy  the  chewing  gum." 

Now,  don't  laugh,  dear  friend,  I  swear  'tis  true, 

Every  word  I've  been  telling  you ; 

And  when  I  had  left  her  at  her  mother's  door 

She  turns  and  says,  "I'm. sorry  it  wasn't  fifty  more." 

Well,  perhaps  you'll  think  me  rather  dumb 

When  I  say  I  thought  she  meant  the  chewing  gum  ; 

But  then,  I  didn't  know  these  country  Misses — 

She  didn't  mean  the  gum  at  all — she  meant  the  kisses. 

—  18  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 


EXPLANATION    AND    A    STATEMENT. 

These  little  poems  written  to  my  prison  friends  are  the  products 
of  certain  prison  conditions  and  the  peculiar  states  of  mind  one  gets 
into  who  longs  to  expand — to  do  something — to  rise  above  his  sur 
roundings. 

Often  I  have  longed  to  pour  out  my  pent  up  feelings  to  some  one, 
but  I  could  not  speak;  so  I  wrote  one  of  these  little  rhymes  and  threw 
it  down  to  one  of  these  prison  friends  as  he  passed  my  cell  sroing 
to  his  work.  In  return  I  would  receive  a  sunny  smile  or  a  hand  wave. 
Somehow  the  smile  and  hand  wave  of  one  of  these  fellow  sufferers 
would  impart  a  spirit  that  would  lighten  my  burden. 

Naturally  your  idea  of  a  convict  is  something  brutal — something 
to  be  dreaded  and  to  be  hounded  like  a  wolf. 

I  have  met  with  the  sweetest  natures,  the  finest  feelings  and  the 
greatest  loyalty  in  a  prison  cell.  No  where  else  have  I  found  such 
rare  examples  of  brotherly  love — self-sacrifice  and  good  will.  The 
moral  standard  of  the  convict  is  higher  than  those  who  guard  him. 

The  author  of  these  lines  was  caught  feeding  the  little  hungry 
sparrows  in  front  of  his  cell  and  was  hung  up  by  the  wrists  with 
only  bread  and  water  to  eat  twice  a  day.  He  had  to  hang  up  twelve 
hours  a  day  for  several  days  and  all  for  a  humane  act. 

The  Warden  and  Deputy  Warden  approved  of  this  treatment  and 
yet  the  thought  of  the  Church,  the  Law  and  Society  was  to  reform — 
to  develop  these  humane  acts.  You  don't  believe  my  statement.  I 
can  prove  it. 

The  little  poem,  crude  no  doubt,  "To  My  Friends  in  Fifty-three," 
was  composed  while  the  author  was  hanging  to  the  iron  door  he 
mentions  above. 

Good  English  will  not  permit  me  to  tell  you  of  the  horrors  of 
that  prison.  The  terrible  crimes  against  nature  of  which  the  man 
agement  approved.  Men  were  murdered  and  driven  insane.  Some 
who  were  not  insane  were  even  put  in  the  "Crazy  House"  which  was 
attached  to  the  prison. 

If  ever  there  was  a  Hell  it  was  the  Foundry  of  that  prison.  Men 
have  cut  off  their  own  fingers  and  hands  to  escape  its  horrors.  'Tis 
true.  I  can  prove  it. 

The  better  your  conduct,  the  longer  you  were  detained,  if  you 
were  a  good  worker,  in  this  prison. 

The  Law  sent  you  there,  they  released  you  when  they  wanted  to. 
If  you  had  money  or  influence  you  could  gain  your  freedom  in  eleven 
months.  Many  an  innocent  man  has  served  twenty  years,  even  life, 
because  he  had  no  money  or  friends.  Many  who  had  robbed  banks  of 
thousands  of  dollars  were  released  in  a  year  or  two;  some  in  eleven 

—  19  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

months.  And  these  "big  thieves"  never  had  anything  to  do  but  lie 
around,  eat  in  the  guard's  kitchen  and  smoke  good  cigars.  'Tis  true. 
I  can  prove  it. 

The  above  statement  is  not  made  in  a  spirit  of  envy  or  jealousy, 
for  the  author  himself  did  not  do  two  months'  work  during  the  five 
years  he  served. 

These  are  plain  statements  and  only  a  few  of  the  horrors  are 
mentioned.  I  have  told  nothing  hardly  to  what  I  might  tell.  I  wish 
to  reserve  my  space  for  something  that  will  not  grate  so  much  upon 
your  nerves. 

In  closing,  let  me  state  further — I  am  not  condemning  all  prison 
officials.  Nor  am  I  speaking  well  of  all  convicts. 

My  little  poems,  "Why  Should  Man  Fear  Man"  and  "Ruling  Art 
and  Detention,"  will  explain  much  I  have  not  mentioned  in  these 
lines. 

Here  is  a  clipping  from  a  daily  newspaper  which  is  a  parallel  case 
to  mine,  showing  how  hard  a  struggle  a  man  has  who  has  been  in 
prison:  

EDDIE  GUERIN'S  THRILLING  STORY. 


Special  to  The  Herald. 

LONDON,  Feb.  17.— The  way  of  the  ex-crook  in  England  is  hard. 
If  you  doubt  it,  go  to  the  little  tobacco  and  candy  store  in  the  East 
End  of  London  kept  by  a  man  who  calls  himself  "Bertram  Morton" 
and  ask  him. 

"Morton"  is  Eddie  Guerin,  who  several  years  ago  startled  the 
world  by  his  sensational  escape  from  Devil's  Island,  the  lonely,  fever- 
ridden  and  shark  sentinelled  spot  of  land  off  the  northern  coast  of 
South  America  which  for  so  many  years  was  the  scene  of  Captain 
Dreyfus's  martyrdom.  Since  then  Guerin  has  been  trying  to  live 
straight;  but  he  will  tell  you  that  society  has  conspired  against  him, 
and  you  will  almost  believe  it.  Acting  on  the  theory  of  once  a  crook, 
always  a  crook,  Scotland  Yard  has  been  dogging  him.  His  former 
associates  of  the  under-world  have  turned  their  hands  against  him, 
and  his  every  act  that  could  be  construed  in  the  least  degree  suspicious 
has  been  reported  to  the  authorities. 

If  Guerin's  protestations  of  leading  an  honest  life  were  untrue, 
it  seems  that  he  would  have  been  trapped  before  this.  Scotland  Yard 
thought  it  had  him  recently.  Detectives  who  had  trailed  him  to  Glas 
gow,  where  he  had  gone  to  sell  some  moving  picture  films,  which 
business  he  has  taken  up  as  a  side  line,  arrested  Guerin  on  the  charge 
of  loitering  about  the  Central  Station  Hotel  in  that  city  "with  intent 
to  steal."  But  the  testimony  didn't  hold  water.  After  hearing  Guerin's 
story,  the  magistrate  promptly  dismissed  him.  The  ex-crook  did  not 

—  20  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

try  to  gloss  over  his  past,  but  he  succeeded  in  persuading  the  court 
that  he  was  sincere  in  his  efforts  to  live  it  down. 

"Do  not  permit  my  previous  bad  reputation  to  weigh  with  you," 
he  pleaded.  "Don't  turn  me  back.  This  means  so  much  to  me.  I  have 
found  it  very  hard  to  reform;  do  not  undo  it  all.  I  challenge  Scotland 
Yard  to  prove  that  I  have  been  associating  with  a  single  suspicious 
character  since  my  escape." 

So  Guerin  is  back  in  his  little  shop,  and  has  again  taken  up  the 
struggle — with  Scotland  Yard  still  watching  him. 

Guerin,  in  company  with  the  notorious  "Chicago  May,"  had 
already  achieved  considerable  fame  as  an  international  crook  when 
he  was  arrested  in  1901  for  burglarizing  the  American  Express  Com 
pany's  office  in  Paris.  Condemned  to  penal  servitude,  he  endured 
the  miseries  of  Devil's  Island  until  1905,  when,  with  two  other  con 
victs,  he  succeeded  in  escaping  by  night  in  a  dug-out.  So  rough  was 
the  sea  that  one  of  his  companions  while  standing  up  to  look  for  the 
coast  line,  lost  his  balance  and  fell  overboard.  A  shark  devoured  the 
unfortunate  man  before  Guerin  could  attempt  his  rescue.  Reaching 
Dutch  Guiana,  Guerin  and  the  other  convict  lived  in  the  forest  for 
six  weeks,  then,  half-starved,  made  their  way  to  Georgetown,  where 
Guerin  found  a  friend  who  supplied  him  with  funds  with  which  to 
travel  to  New  York. 

The  ex-convict's  troubles,  in  his  determination  to  reform,  began 
shortly  after  he  reached  London,  in  1906.  "Chicago  May,"  whose  love 
for  Guerin  had  cooled,  happened  to  run  across  him  in  the  street, 
and  promptly  betrayed  him  to  the  police.  In  the  subsequent  extradi 
tion  proceedings,  Guerin  proved  that  he  was  an  English  subject,  and 
on  June  14,  1907,  he  was  released. 

The  very  next  evening  while  he  was  standing  at  a  corner  of 
Russell  Square,  a  cab  drove  up,  and  a  man  leaped  out  and  fired  several 
shots,  one  of  which  struck  Guerin  in  the  foot.  The  assailant  was 
"Dutch  Gus"  Smith,  a  former  companion  in  the  under-world,  who 
had  never  forgiven  Guerin  for  winning  "Chicago  May"  away  from  him. 
Both  Smith  and  the  woman,  who  had  been  trailing  Guerin  in  the  cab 
all  evening,  were  arrested  and  speedily  convicted  of  attempted  murder. 
"Dutch  Gus"  was  sent  up  for  life,  and  "Chicago  May"  for  15  years. 

Guerin  ascribes  most  of  his  subsequent  difficulties  with  Scotland 
Yard  to  the  friends  of  this  pair.  "Chicago  May,"  whose  real  name  is 
May  Churchill,  is  one  of  the  most  notorious  female  criminals  of 
Europe.  Strikingly  beautiful,  her  favorite  pursuit  is  blackmail,  and  it 
is  said  that  she  drove  several  of  her  victims  to  suicide.  She  was 
regarded  as  a  sort  of  queen  of  the  under-world,  and  there  are  any 
number  of  her  miserable  subjects  who  are  eager  now  to  win  her  favor 
by  "getting"  Guerin. 

—  21  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 
THE  ROSE  TREE. 


Outside  my  prison  window 

A  little  rose  tree  grew; 
Ah,  often  have  I  wondered 

If  the  little  rose  tree  knew 
Of  the  humble  aching  heart 

That  lingered  in  the  shade 
Of  the  dreary  walls  and  bars 

The  hands  of  men  have  made. 
Oh  fragrant  little  rose  tree 

With  your  fragrant  little  flowers, 
How  often  have   I   watched  you 

Through  the  sad  and  silent  hours; 
And  I  must  frankly  tell  you 

For  years  and  years  I've  sought 
For  the  good  and  noble  lessons 

Your  little  rose-buds  taught; 
And  I  thank  you,  oh,  I  thank  you, 

And  I  never  shall  forget, 
How  often  you  have  cheered  me, 

Sweet  rose  tree — I'm  glad  we  met. 


WHO  KNOWS? 


Hark,  hark,  you  who  are  free 

To  the  cry  of  a  soul  in  distress, 

With  contrite  heart  I  openly  plea 
For  a  bit  of  your  happiness. 

Hark,  hark,  you  who  would  hear 

Of  a  sad,  sad  soul  and  its  pleading, 

Can  you  look  on  and  shed  not  a  tear 

For  the  heart  that  is  wounded  and  bleeding. 

Hark,  hark,  you  who  have  love, 

To  a  wretch  in  a  lonely  cell; 
Perhaps  you  may  meet  him  above 

Where  the  Lord  and  the  Angels  dwell. 

—  22  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 
THE  SADDEST  SOUL  OF  THEM  ALL. 


I  arose  at  dawn 

With  a  weary  yawn 
At  the  sound  of  the  birdie's  call, 

And  through  the  bars 

I  watched  the  stars 
Gleam  down  on  the  grim,  gray  wall; 

And  each  bright  ray 

Of  the  dawning  day 
Crept  in  through  the  open  door 

And  spread  its  lights 

Upon  the  sights 
Of  a  thousand  souls  or  more 

And  one  sad  soul  was  I 

The  saddest  soul  of  them  all. 


WHY  SHOULD  MAN  FEAR  MAN? 


I  care  not  who  you  chance  to  be; 

Tho'  Lord  or  millionaire, 
Governor  or  judge  of  high  degree; 

I  fear  you  not  and  dare — 
If  I  am  right — and  need  no  aid — 

To  call  you  fools  and  knaves ; 

Pointing  to  the  wretched  graves, 

Your  tyranny  has  made — 
And  fearing  not,  I  ask — and  if  you  can, 
Answer — Why  should  man  fear  man? 

Fools  and  knaves — for  such  you  are; 
Tho'  otherwise  may  seem, 

I  point  you  to  yon  rising  star 
With  lusterous  gleam, 

Ah,  watch  it  on  its  upward  course 
Through  realms  of  eternal  space 
And  tell  me,  fools  of  wealth  and  place, 

What  guides  it  upward,  what  is  its  source? 
Ah,  poor  fools  and  wretched  knaves, 
After  all,  you  are  but  slaves, 

So  I  ask — through  life's  short  span — 

Answer — Why  should  man  fear  man? 

—  23  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

You  can  but  take  my  life, 

You,  too,  poor  fools,  must  die, 
What  matter  the  few  short  years  longer  you  may  live, 

Ere  I  have  finished  the  lines  here  written 
Thousands  will  pass  beyond 

And  thousands  more  will  be  ushered  into  the  world — 

Fools — the  very  earth  you  tread 

Is  but  the  dust  of  mingled  dead, 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  king,  the  slave, 

All  shall  share  alike — the  grave. 

Yes,  your  turn  shall  come — poor  fools — 

And  other  races  shall  walk  upon  your  dust 

As  you  now  walk  upon  the  dust  of  those  now  dead ; 

So  why  should  I  fear  your  power 

Which  is  really  no  greater  than  my  own ; 

You  have  taken  my  liberty — 

You  may  take  my  life, 

But  I  fear  me  not  to  die 

Nor  fear  the  great  beyond; 
Ah,  poor  fools  and  knaves — I  pity  you, 

Slaves  to  lust  and  greed, 
I  hide  behind  gray  walls  my  shame ; 

You,  poor  fools,  have  no  shame. 

What  care  I  if  you  should  say, 

"He  is  but  a  harmless  lunatic, 

"Poor  fellow" — meaning  me, 
I  may  be  insane — if  so,  what  then? 

What  matters  that — I  live  and  feel 
And  have  lived  longer  in  one  small  hour 
Than  you  poor  fools  shall  ever  live ; 
Even  behind  these  gray  walls  and  bars, 

That  turn  earth  to  hideous  Hell ; 

I  have  felt  keener  joys 
Than  you  poor  fools  can  ever  feel. 

So  why  should  I  fear? 

—  24  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

If  I  obey  your  laws 

'Tis  not  because  I  fear, 

But  because  'tis  right — 

For  did  I  not  violate  the  "Law" 
And  do  I  not  believe  in  law  and  order? 
'Tis  just  that  I  should  suffer  for  my  crime 
And  reasonable  that  I  should  not  rebel ; 

Nor  have  I — till  I  am  legally  free, 
Served  the  time  fixed  by  the  "Law" — 
And  yet  I  am  detained,  robbed  of  my  rights ; 

Now  'tis  right  that  I  should  rebel. 

I  have  justice  on  my  side; 
Not  the  justice  of  fools  and  knaves, 
But  the  great  laws  of  Nature  and  the  Universe. 

What  is  life?   does  any  one  know? 
Where  did  it  come  from,  where  does  it  go? 
Can  the  wisest  man,  I  ask,  tell  why 
We  are  born  today,  but  tomorrow  die? 

Life  is  an  organization  of  particles — a  stage  of  existence ; 

Temporarily  conscious  of  its  existence, 
Death  a  decomposition  and  loss  of  consciousness, 
So  why  should  I  fear?  You  can  but  take  my  life; 
You  will  but  sound  your  own  death  knell, 

For  ere  my  bones  have  turned  to  dust 

You,  too,  poor  fools,  must  follow  me. 
So  why  should  I  fear?  what  should  I  fear? 
The  cause  is  a  just  cause 
And  I  have  the  courage  of  my  convictions ; 
I  can  but  die  and  'tis  better  so 

Than  live  a  while  in  despair  then  die  in  shame  at  last. 
So,  if  I  must  die,  dear  friends,  farewell,  farewell, 

I  have  no  fear. 


Within  the  great  wide  prison  wall 
There  stands  a  solitary  tree; 
The  scenes  on  which  its  shadows  fall 
Are  ones  of  misery. 

—  25  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 
RULING  ART  AND  DETENTION. 


You  ask,  my  friends — and  I  don't  know  who 

Has  a  better  right  to  know  than  you, 

To  give  an  opinion  of  a  certain  law ; 

Nor  doubt  my  mind  may  hold  a  flaw. 

Such  confidence  shall  be  appreciated 

And  my  opinion  free  and  fully  stated. 

To  view  a  thing,  we  must  note  each  part, 

And  in  viewing  find  a  place  to  start; 

Had  I  the  naming  of  this  law  you  mention 

I'd  name  it  "Ruling  Art  and  Detention." 

The  "Ruling  Art"  seems  somewhat  misapplied ; 

But  'tis  nothing  more  than  Carpet-bagging  modified ; 

And,  dear  friends,  while  I'm  revealing, 

Carpet-bagging  is  nothing  more  than  stealing  ; 

The  two  together — "Ruling  Art  and  Detention," 

Are  what  I  term  a  legalized  invention, 

Invented  by  some  master,  mercenary  mind, 

Whose  only  thoughts  were  selfishly  inclined, 

Whose  only  wish  and  main  desire 

Is  to  build  his  pile  a  little  higher; 

Whose  hands  no  doubt  are  soft  to  feel, 

But  heart,  harder  than  the  hardest  steel; 

Who  grasp  with  outstretched  hands  the  golden  flood, 

Whose  every  dollar  represents  an  ounce  of  human  blood; 

Who,  scheming  for  gold's  bright  sake, 

Violates  the  very  laws  he  helps  to  make ; 

And,  dear  friends,  if  we  but  only  knew, 

We'd  find  the  thief  the  better  man  of  the  two. 

These  fools  and  knaves  put  up  to  represent, 

A  law  that  produces  what  it  should  prevent, 

Have  me  at  their  mercy,  age  and  more, 

Hold  the  key  that  locks  my  very  door; 

But,  dear  friends,  even,  tho'  I  be  their  slave; 

They,  too,  poor  fools,  must  share  my  grave. 

—  26  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

JUST  TO  SAY  FAREWELL. 
A  Song. 


A  young  man  in  a  lonely  cell  sat  pining  the  hours  away ; 
His  heart  was  sad  and  longing  while  other  hearts  were  gay ; 
Long  years  he's  been  in  prison,  all  hope  for  him  seemed  dead, 
Yet  he's  thinking  of  his  sweetheart,  the  one  he'd  long  to  wed. 
The  birds,  the  trees,  the  flowers,  the  dear  old  happy  home 
Where  with  his  darling  sweetheart  he  used  to  play  and  roam; 
But  now  he's  going  to  write  her,  there  from  his  lonely  cell 
And  tell  her  that  he's  dying  and  say  once  more  farewell. 

REFRAIN. 

I'm  going  to  write  you  just  to  say  farewell 
For  I'm  sad  and  dying  in  a  lonely  cell ; 
Oh  darling  do  you  miss  me,  Iwonder  if  you  do, 
I  could  gladly  die  just  to  feel  your  kiss  once  more 

And  say  good-bye ; 

For  no  one  ever  knew  how  to  kiss  the  same  as  you 
And  tho'  the  years  have  fled  and  you  perhaps  are  wed, 
Yet  your  kisses  linger  still  on  my  lips  and  ever  will 

Darling,  till  I'm  dead. 

The  maiden  took  the  message  to  the  Governor  of  the  State, 

With  tear-stained  cheeks  told  the  story  of  her  lover's  fate ; 

And  when  he'd  read  the  message  his  tears  began  to  flow, 

For  he  had  loved  a  maiden,  tho'  that  was  years  ago ; 

Now  Summer  flowers  were  blooming  on  his  sweetheart'sgrave, 

So  for  her  sake  a  pardon  the  old  man  gladly  gave 

And  bade  the  maid  speed  onward  with  hope  and  good  cheer 

But  when  she's  gone,  the  message  keeps  ringing  in  his  ear. 


UNDER  THE  GARDEN  SHADE. 
A  Song. 


When  the  Winter  days  are  over  and  the  soft  sweet  breath  of 

Spring 

Comes  to  start  the  pretty  rosebuds  and  the  little  birds  to  sing 
'Tis  then,  dear  heart,  I  miss  you  and  I  wonder  if  you're  true 
To  the  vows  made  in  the  garden  where  the  roses  grew. 

—  27  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

REFRAIN. 

I  wonder  if  you  are  still  waiting  and  true, 

True  to  the  vows  we  made 
When  skies  were  blue,  where  roses  grew, 

Under  the  garden  shade. 

The  years  have  slowly  passed  away,  I'm  coming  home  to  you, 
All  through  the  toil  and  hardship  my  heart  was  ever  true, 
Nor  once  have  I  forgotten  the  solemn  vows  we  made 
And  sealed  each  one  with  kisses,  under  the  garden  shade. 


A  SONG— MY  ROSA  BELLE. 


I  dreamed  a  dream,  a  sweet  fair  dream,  I  dreamed  of  you 
And,  darling,  in  my  dream,  me  thought  my  dream  was  true ; 
Me  thought  I  saw  you  standing  there,  where  first  my  love  I  told 
The  sun  was  shining  on  your  head  and  turned  your  hair  to  gold ; 
I  pressed  your  throbbing  heart  to  mine,  your  love  to  me  you  tell 
But  as  I  kiss  your  rosebud  lips,  I  wake  in  a  lonely  cell. 

REFRAIN. 

My  Rosa  Belle,  I  dream  of  you 
Your  love  you  tell,  I  dream  'tis  true, 
And  in  my  dreams,  your  sweet  face  seems 
To  linger  near  my  lonely  cell 
To  keep  me  cheer,  my  Rosa  Belle; 
Oh,  will  you  wait,  outside  the  gate 
When  my  time  is  o'er,  sweet  Rosa  Belle. 

I  dreamed  a  dream,  another  dream,  of  you  sweet  Rosa  Belle, 
And  in  my  dream  me  thought  you  stood  before  my  lonely  cell ; 
Oh  tell  me  sweetheart,  darling  Rose,  will  my  dreams  come  true, 
When  my  time  is  over  will  I  be  the  same  to  you? 
Oh  meet  me,  little  sweetheart,  at  the  prison  door, 
For,  darling,  in  each  dream  I  love  you  more  and  more. 

I  dreamed  again  of  you  sweet  Rose,  dreamed  the  years  had  fled ; 
My  heart  was  filled  with  sadness,  for  darling  you  were  dead ; 
But  then,  I'm  only  dreaming  in  my  lonely  cell, 
And,  darling,  how  I  love  you  word  can  never^tell; 
Oh  tell  me  little  sweetheart,  when  my  time  is  o'er 
Will  I  find  you  waiting  at  the  prison  door. 

-28  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 


A  SONG— GOOD-BYE  OLD  PRISON  CHUM. 


In  a  dark  and  lonely  cell  behind  an  iron-barred  gate 

Two  young  men  linger,  in  silence  sadly  wait; 

Their  hearts  are  bound  in  friendship,  their  aim  in  life  is  one, 

To  gain  a  place  in  freedom  beneath  the  glowing  sun; 

But  one  day  a  pardon  came  and  one  must  go  away 

And  as  he  leaves,  to  his  friend,  his  comrades  hear  him  say — 

CHORUS. 

Good-bye  old  prison  chum,  for  I  must  leave ; 
Good-bye,  old  fellow,  for  you  I'll  grieve; 
And  where'er  I  stray,  be  it  near  or  far  away, 
My  thoughts  shall  always  be  with  you, 
Nor  will  I  forget  the  dreary  place  we  met — 
Good-bye,  old  prison  chum,  good-bye  to  you. 

The  young  man  stood  in  freeland  outside  the  iron-barred  gate, 

But  his  heart  was  filled  with  sadness  and  all  seemed  desolate, 

For  the  only  friend  he  had  in  all  the  world  that  day 

Was  the  gentle  youth  that  lingered  behind  the  walls  of  gray; 

But  then  he  could  not  help  him,  so  turning  with  a  sigh, 

He  bade  his  dear  old  comrade  once  more  good-bye. 

Now  the  years  have  slowly  sped,  the  young  men  both  are  free; 

They've  built  a  home  and  happiness  in  freedom  o'er  the  sea 

Where  no  one  knows  their  past  nor  will  ever  know 

The  dreary  years  they  spent  in  prison  long  ago ; 

But  often  by  their  fireside  when  beams  the  evening  stars 

They  live  again  in  memory  behind  the  cold  steel  bars. 


Behind  the  shaded  walls  they  have  confined 

My  weary  flesh  and  bone 
But  no,  they  ne'er  can  keep  my  mind 

Behind  ten  thousand  walls  of  stone. 


—  29  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 
YOU  AND  I— THE  CONVICT'S  STORY. 


Extract  From  a  Most  Remarkable  Book  to  Be  Published  Shortly  in 

Erie  Is  Worthy  of  Serious  Study  and  Careful  Consideration. 

What  It  Costs  One  Who  Has  Done  Time  to  Live  Square 

Afterwards— Will  This  Man,  Living  Right  Here  in 

Erie,  Go  Out  in  the  Woods  With  His  Faithful 

Wife  and  Starve?    He  Says  He  Will. 


[EDITOR'S  NOTE — Living  in  Erie  is  an  ex-convict.  His  record 
is  known.  He  has  a  story  to  tell.  He  tells  it  well  and  he  has  the 
proof  to  substantiate  what  he  says  about  himself.  He  is  publishing  a 
book  and  it  will  be  out  shortly.  It  is  a  most  remarkable  work.  There 
are  a  number  of  Erie  people  who  have  heard  the  man's  story,  who 
have  seen  his  proofs  of  what  he  claims.  He  contends  that,  having 
been  a  convict,  he  is  hounded  continually  and  is  unable  to  make  an 
honest  living  for  himself  and  wife.  He  is  determined  to  live  honestly 
or  starve.  He  discusses  a  vital  social  question  in  a  way  that  will  cause 
the  reader  to  pause  and  reflect.] 


The  following  article  was  written  at  a  time  when  the  author  was 
worried  and  had  very  little  balance — nor  does  he  claim  to  be  real 
well  balanced  now.  He  is  struggling  to  better  his  condition,  to  gain 
balance  and  learn  truth,  to  survive  and  come  up  to  a  certain  moral 
standard. 

The  way  is  dark  but  he  shall  win.  It  is  the  writer's  intention  to 
start  an  organization  called  "The  Humane  Workers'  Society,"  to  help 
erase  the  awful  condition  now  existing,  to  better  humanity  in  general, 
and  would  be  glad  to  hear  from  any  one  who  is  interested  in  such  a 
movement. 

You  can  help  by  sending  suggestions,  by  personal  service  or 
financially.  

You  read  these  lines.  How  do  you  read  these  lines?  By  impres 
sions  made  upon  the  organ  of  sight.  From  the  organ  of  sight  the 
impressions  are  carried  to  the  faculty  of  reason  where  they  are 
analyzed.  Right  now  that  process  is  going  on  in  your  brain  and  you 
understand  what  I  have  written.  Now  the  impressions  are  being 
carried  on  to  the  memory  where  they  are  retained  for  future  use. 
Similarity  revives  these  impressions  and  so  we  recall  and  have  our 
being. 

All  we  know  is  according  to  the  impressions  made  upon  our  five 
senses  at  some  time  or  other  during  our  life. 

We  are  intelligent  and  educated  according  to  the  number  and 
kind  of  impressions  made  upon  our  faculties  through  our  five  senses. 

—  31  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

We  are  superstitious,  prejudiced,  narrow-minded,  etc.,  because  of 
wrong  impressions  that  have  become  fixed  on  our  faculties  through 
wrong  teaching  and  bad  association.  These  can  only  be  erased  by 
right  teaching  and  good  association. 

The  hereditary  effects,  morally,  of  ten  gererations,  can  be  changed 
in  one  generation  by  environment  and  conditions. 

A  man  can  be  both  right  and  wrong.  Right  according  to  the  laws 
of  nature  and  wrong  according  to  the  standard  we  gauge  the  world 
by.  But  there  is  no  perfect  harmony  for  a  man  who  is  right  by  nature 
if  he's  wrong  by  laws  of  man.  There  are  natural  laws;  there  must  be 
laws  by  man,  and  even  though  those  laws  are  unjust,  man  must  obey 
them.  There  must  be  men  to  make  laws;  men  to  enforce  these  laws, 
and  if  there  were  no  men  to  break  them,  we  wouldn't  need  any  laws. 
So  the  law  breaker  is  a  main  factor  in  our  great  scheme  of  law  and 
order  and  when  the  law  breaker  and  the  law  enforcer  recognize  the 
work  in  harmony  with  the  law  breaker  they  will  find  a  solution  to  the 
great  problem. 

Even  a  correct  answer  to  a  simple  sum  in  arithmetic  can  not  be 
worked  out  if  one  little  cipher  is  left  out.  How,  then,  can  you  solve 
the  greatest  problem  on  earth  today,  by  leaving  out  the  one  great 
main  factor,  the  law  breaker. 

You  have  your  great  prison  congress,  your  laws,  etc.,  but  all  you 
really  do  is  to  treat  your  law  breaker  like  you  do  your  pigs  and  cattle. 
You  build  a  pen  around  him,  feed  and  keep  the  wind  off  and  then  he's 
what?  Turned  loose  after  he's  good  for  nothing  to  be  hounded  till 
you  round  him  up  in  the  cattle  pen  again.  I'm  not  blaming  you. 
You  are  not  to  blame.  But  you  are  blaming  me.  You  are  penning 
me  up,  you  are  hounding  me  when  I'm  out  of  the  pen.  You  call  me  an 
ex-convict.  Debar  me  from  the  rights  you  say  I  have.  How  do  you 
do  this?  By  the  conditions  you  make.  How  do  you  make  these 
conditions?  Read  the  clipping  I  insert  from  one  of  your  papers: 

ARE  GIVEN  LASHES  ON  BARE  BACK  IN  ZERO  WEATHER 
FOR   THEIR   CRIMES. 

WILMINGTON,  Del.,  Jan.  13.— With  arms  tied  to  the  extended 
arms  of  a  cross  and  with  backs  bared  to  the  zero  gale,  two  men  were 
mercilessly  lashed  in  the  court  yard  of  the  county  workhouse  here 
today,  as  part  payment  of  the  toll  the  State  exacts  for  their  crimes. 

John  Brewington  received  forty  lashes  with  a  cat-o'-nine-tails,  in 
addition  to  which  he  will  serve  two  years  in  state's  prison  for  highway 
robbery. 

Arthur  Johnson  received  twenty  lashes  and  will  serve  one  year 
for  larceny. 

—  32  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

The  men  suffered  frightfully  from  the  cold  and  from  the  blood 
letting  lashes  and  staggered  semi-conscious,  back  to  their  cells.  The 
whippings,  as  are  all  Delaware  whippings,  were  public,  and  a  morbid 
crowd  stood  against  the  prison  walls  and  saw  the  heavy  leather  strap 
with  its  nine  thongs  cut  deep  into  the  quivering  flesh  of  the  wretches. 

The  men  were  to  have  been  lashed  early  today,  but  the  two 
degrees  above  zero  weather  chilled  Warden  Crawford  himself  to  such 
an  extent  that  he  postponed  the  whipping  until  the  day  warmed. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  a  four-degree  rise  in  the  temperature  was 
noted,  Crawford  bundled  himself  up  in  a  fur-lined  overcoat,  put  on 
heavy  gloves  and  ordered  the  men  brought  out. 

Each  wore  a  heavy  blanket  wrapped  about  his  neck  and  hanging 
down  across  his  chest,  but  his  back  was  nude.  The  prisoners'  hands 
were  encased  in  gloves  as  their  extended  arms  were  lashed  to  the 
cross,  but  the  winds  bit  and  the  snow  pelted  against  their  naked  backs. 

Brewington  was  whipped  first.  The  back,  blue  from  the  cold, 
shivered  and  shook  as  the  first  blow  of  the  strap  fell,  cutting  bloody 
welts  straight  across.  Ten  times  the  scourge  fell,  straight  down,  and 
ninety  livid  welts  showed  on  his  quivering  back.  Then  by  moving  his 
position,  Warden  Crawford  made  the  strap  strike  at  an  angle.  Ten 
blows  thus,  and  the  angle  was  changed,  until,  when  the  forty  cruel 
blows  had  landed,  a  perfect  grill  of  embossed  flesh,  torn  and  bruised, 
showed  across  the  wretch's  back.  Not  a  sound  did  Brewington  utter, 
though  his  lips  were  bleeding  from  the  bites  he  gave  as  the  scourge 
swished  through  the  air  and  he  stiffened  himself  for  the  coming  pain. 

His  arms  were  freed  and  he  staggered  back  from  the  cross. 
Guards  seized  him.  Without  washing  away  the  blood,  they  drew  a 
heavy,  coarse  woolen  undershirt  over  his  body  and  rushed  him,  half 
frozen,  back  to  his  cell. 

Johnson,  nude  to  the  waist,  stood  by  all  the  while,  shivering  from 
the  cold  and  fright;  involuntarily  he  braced  himself  as  each  blow 
landed  on  Brewington's  shoulders,  as  though  he  could  feel  the  pain 
himself.  Then,  when  Brewington's  torture  was  ended,  Johnson  was 
led  to  the  cross,  pilloried  and  lashed. 


But  the  above  article  is  humane  compared  to  the  writer's  own 
case.  I  do  not  relate  my  story  because  you  would  laugh  at  me  in 
scorn.  You  would  not  believe  me. 

If  you  follow  the  writer  in  his  writing,  you  may  learn  something 
of  that  peculiar  phase  of  human  existence  where  man  must  struggle 
against  heredity,  early  environment  and  old  association;  even  more 
and  yet  remains  honest,  leading  as  clean  a  moral  life  as  man  can  live. 

"You  shall  leave  that  'snip'  of  a  girl  and  come  back  to  me  or  I 
will  drive  you  either  to  starvation  or  crime." 

—  33  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

These  words  were  uttered  by  a  woman,  whose  resources  are 
worth  millions,  to  an  ex-convict  recently  discharged  from  prison. 
A  woman  beautiful,  educated,  with  a  wide  worldly  experience  and  a 
criminal  brain,  who  handles  most  judges  and  police  officials  as  a  nurse 
would  a  baby;  even  with  less  trouble. 

No  blood  hound  was  ever  more  persistent  or  kept  the  track  better 
than  does  this  beautiful  feminine  species  of  mankind.  As  a  cat  plays 
with  a  mouse  does  this  lady  play  with  her  human  prey. 

The  above  lines  may  sound  more  like  a  page  from  a  dime  novel 
than  a  part  of  a  truthful  statement  by  a  man,  who,  when  you  read 
these  lines,  may  have  passed  out  into  the  great  beyond. 

This  woman  with  her  polished  manners  and  soft,  soothing  ways, 
walks  on  the  laws  of  America,  using  its  representatives  and  society  to 
hound  and  persecute  an  honest  man  and  an  innocent  girl. 

And  you  don't  believe  it!  Such  a  thing  could  not  be  so!  But 
it  is.  You  are  blinded  by  the  very  truth  you  fail  to  recognize.  But  I, 
the  ex-convict,  the  outcast,  the  one  whom  you  deny  the  right  to 
happiness  and  life,  shall  be  your  physician;  shall  restore  your  sight. 
Not  because  I  am  smarter  than  you,  but  because  I  am  humble  and 
seek  the  truth  where  I  may  find  it,  and  from  a  non-personal  view 
point.  The  lowly  approach  nearest  the  truth  because  the  truth  is 
found  in  low  places. 

You  in  your  elevated  stations  of  life,  with  your  lofty  conceptions 
of  God  and  the  Universe,  that  God  created  all  things  for  your 
special  benefit,  are  deluded  by  your  own  self  importance.  You  walk 
on  the  truth,  but  do  not  know  it. 

God — an  idea,  supernatural,  that  conveys  to  mortal  mind  that 
something  which  he  can  not  understand,  but  which  he  feels  must 
exist  or  he  himself  would  not  exist. 

Down  on  my  humble  knees  I  worship  that  God — first  by  acknowl 
edging  that  I  do  not  know,  that  I  can  not  know,  that  I  will  not  at 
tempt  to  know  that  which  is  beyond  by  understanding — complete  sub 
mission.  I  therefore  seek  to  understand  the  forces  within  my  own 
being  which  will  enable  me  to  recognize  the  truth  when  I  find  it; 
a  small  portion,  at  least.  Some  one  said: 

"He  that  is  down  need  fear  no  fall, 

He   that   is   low   no   pride. 
And  he  that  is  humble  ever  shall 
Have    Truth    to    be    his    guide." 

So  I  seek  the  truth  in  the  low  places,  for  you  in  your  lofty  stations 
have  not  found  it. 

In  order  to  learn  the  truth  about  any  particular  thing,  we  must 
first  eliminate  all  prejudice  and  personal  interest  and  look  the  thing 
square  in  the  face.  I  may  add  the  simpler  we  are  in  our  methods,  the 

—  34  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

more  progress  we  can  make  toward  discovering  the  truth  and  the 
easier  can  we  prescribe  a  remedy.  To  get  the  best  results  one  must 
be  frank  and  open,  with  a  complete  disregard  for  public  opinion. 

The  writer  of  this  article  is  an  ex-convict  who  is  having  more 
than  the  usual  struggle.  He  deserved  the  time  he  served  and  admits 
it.  Is  free  now  and  in  the  face  of  some  very  disagreeable  facts,  which 
may  follow,  don't  care  a  "rip"  what  you  think  of  him  and  his  crude 
expression. 

This  article  is  a  cold,  hard,  steel  proposition,  written  as  a  last 
resource  to  gain  an  honest  livelihood,  to  keep  the  wolf  of  "want"  from 
the  door.  It  seems  to  be  his  last  chance. 

The  writer  and  his  wife  lived  on  25  cents  a  day  for  the  last  two 
weeks.  Twenty-five  cents  has  even  gone  two  days.  At  the  rate  of 
25  cents  per  day,  they  may  live  fourteen  clays  more. 

When  one  may  have  only  fourteen  days  more  to  live,  he  loses  all 
fear  of  public  opinion  and  has  no  motive  to  lie  and  is  more  apt  to 
state  facts  as  they  appear  to  him — to  express  his  thoughts  as  they 
really  are  than  those  trained  and  educated  whose  business  it  is  to 
furnish  the  public  with  information  on  various  topic — than  judges 
and  police  officials,  who  think  within  a  radius  of  their  jurisdiction, 
and  ministers  who  live  within  a  radius  of  twenty-five  miles  and  judge 
the  entire  world  by  the  standard  they  gage  that  radius  by. 

At  the  end  of  fourteen  days  should  circumstances  compel  him  to 
either  steal  or  starve,  he  shall  starve. 

But  what  about  the  beautiful  young  wife,  who  gave  up  a  home  of 
wealth  and  luxury  to  wed  him,  the  ex-convict,  and  knowing  all?  She — 
one  of  you — shall  she  die?  Yes! 

Does  she  love  him,  this  monster,  the  convict?  Yes,  better  than  he 
ever  dreamed  a  woman  could  love,  and  because  he  loves  her,  they 
shall  die. 

Yes,  we  will  die!      "Oh,  what  nonsense!" 

But  it  must  seem  strange  to  you  that  we  should  wish  to  plunge 
into  the  Great  Beyond? 

We  do  not  desire.  We  are  compelled.  We  do  not  fear.  It  is  her 
will  to  share  my  fate  and  she  would  have  me  remain  true  to  her  ideal, 
and  I  shall. 

After  all,  perhaps,  'tis  better  so,  for  you  shall  know  the  truth  and 
the  generation  that  comes  will  profit  by  the  example. 

Our  whole  scheme  of  existence  is  based  on  two  great  principles, 
Life  and  Death.  Why  should  one  fear  to  pass  into  the  Great  Beyond? 
What  matter  the  few  short  years  longer  I  might  live,  if  by  dying  now 
I  accomplish  a  purpose  and  that  purpose  be  the  giving  to  the  world 
the  truth  that  may  solve  a  problem  the  law,  the  church  and  society 
have  failed  to  solve  since  the  beginning  of  time?  Could  I  really  do 
better? 


PRISON      POEMS. 

We,  ourselves,  are  a  part  of  the  very  forces  that  make  possible 
our  own  existence.  We  all  came  from  the  same  place,  because  there 
was  no  other  place  to  come  from,  and  we  shall  all  go  back  to  the 
same  place,  because  there  is  no  other  place  for  us  to  go — the  Universe. 
All  any  of  us  can  really  know  is  that  we  don't  know,  and  when  we 
think  we  do  know,  then  is  when  we  delude  ourselves. 

Perhaps  all  that  I  have  said  is  the  product  of  a  diseased  brain, 
driven  mad  by  constant  hounding  by  old  associates  who  seek  to  bring 
me  back  to  the  old  life,  who  dog  me  night  and  day,  causing  me  to 
fail  in  every  new  enterprise  I  undertake,  pointing  me  out  to  the  police 
and  my  new  associates. 

So  my  only  hope  lays  in  the  very  article  I  am  writing.  Should  it 
have  no  value  to  the  magazine  I  am  sending  it  to — well — we  have 
fourteen  days  longer  to  live  and  during  that  time  we  shall  have  lived 
longer  and  felt  keener,  sweeter,  joys  than  most  people  do  in  a  life 
time. 

And,  when  the  time  comes,  we  shall  wander  out  into  the  beautiful 
snow,  to  the  woods  we  both  love  so  well.  There  you  will  find  us  in 
the  spring,  when  the  snow  has  melted  away  and  the  birds  have  re 
turned  from  the  sunny  South,  there  midst  the  birth  of  new  life  shall 
you  find  us  locked  in  each  other's  arms — that  part  which  we  call  life 
will  have  returned  back  to  the  source  from  whence  it  came,  but  we 
shall  live — live  as  a  monument  to  the  truth  we  died  to  prove. 

Along  with  us  you  will  find  this  article  which  no  editor  would 
accept,  that  had  no  value  until  two  human  lives  were  given  to  prove 
its  sincerity,  its  reality.  The  last  forlorn  hope  of  two  blundering 
children  of  nature  who  blundered  on  to  the  truth  through  their  folly 
and  your  persecution. 

Oh,  but  you  shall  know.  The  article  that  had  no  value  will  be 
come  valuable.  The  editors  that  refused  it  will  clamor  for  it.  The 
newspapers  will  print  and  reprint  it,  and  I,  the  hounded,  the  convict 
that  you  would  not  give  a  fair  show,  shall  become  your  teacher.  And 
the  brave,  noble-hearted  little  girl  who  gave  her  sweet  young  life  that 
I  might  live  up  to  her  ideal  shall  become  an  example — a  sacrifice  to 
the  good  in  a  man  the  world  could  not  see. 

But  we  still  live  and  hope,  so  I  shall  continue  my  ravings. 

I  love  this  old  world.  I  hate  no  one.  Not  even  those  who  have 
pointed  the  finger  of  scorn  and  said:  "He's  an  ex-convict!  Don't 
trust  him!"  I  don't  blame  you.  How  can  I.  Like  myself,  you  are  the 
product  of  the  surrounding  conditions.  I  would  even  kiss  the  finger 
you  point  in  scorn.  Not  because  I  am  a  coward!  I  fear  nothing,  not 
even  the  Great  Beyond,  but  in  the  spirit  of  sympathy,  with  a  bleeding, 
sorrowing  heart,  for  I  once  thought  as  you  do.  I  once  hated  you  as 
you  hate  me,  the  ex-convict. 

—  36  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

Oh,  but  I  was  wrong.  Now  that  I  seem  so  near  the  Great  Beyond, 
I  see  things  so  differently.  You  and  I — we  are  what  the  environment 
and  conditions  made  us.  I  love  you,  but  I  hate  the  conditions  that 
made  you  hate  me.  You  are  no  more  responsible  for  hating  me  than 
I  am  for  loving  you.  Why  should  I  retaliate?  The  whole  conception 
is  false. 

Is  the  flower  seed  dropped  by  the  wayside  into  unfertile  soil, 
growing  up  among  vile  weeds,  any  more  responsible  for  its  puniness 
than  is  the  seed  planted  in  some  king's  fertile  garden,  receiving  care 
and  cultivation,  that  grows  into  a  beautiful  flower,  rich  in  color  and 
sweet  in  fragrance? 

To  find  the  cause  as  to  why  one  is  puny  and  undergrown  and  the 
others  beautiful  and  strong,  would  you  look  at  the  flower  or  the 
surrounding  conditions?  To  remove  the  cause  would  you  use  the 
hoe  on  the  poor,  puny  flower  or  the  ground  and  weeds?  Might  not  the 
puny  flower  become  strong  and  beautiful  if  transplanted  in  the  king's 
garden  and  cultivated  with  care? 

The  flower  that  was  rich  in  color  and  which  gave  forth  such 
sweet  perfume  was  compelled  to  grow  sweet  and  strong.  It  knew  no 
other  way.  Surrounding  conditions  made  them  both  what  they  were; 
one  strong  and  the  other  weak  and  under  grown. 

In  the  king's  garden  one  dare  not  walk  on  the  flower  bed.  By  the 
wayside  one  tramples  as  much  as  he  pleases. 

When  you  and  I  quit  fighting  and  abusing  one  another  and  unite 
in  fighting  the  surrounding  conditions,  cutting  the  weeds,  cultivating 
the  soil  and  watering  the  flowers,  we  may  make  the  puny  flower  strong 
and  beautiful  and  the  beautiful  flower  more  beautiful. 

You  are  the  flower  (figuratively)  in  the  king's  garden.  I  am  the 
one  by  the  wayside.  You  look  on  me  from  your  luxurious  height,  but 
it  was  your  seed  that  the  wind  blew  over  the  garden  wall  out  by  the 
wayside  and  in  denying  me  the  sunshine  and  allowing  the  weeds  to 
smother  out  my  poor  life,  you  blight  your  own  life  and  that  of  the 
generation  to  follow. 

By  hating  and  abusing  me  you  approach  no  nearer  the  truth.  The 
problem  you  seek  to  solve  will  only  be  solved  by  love  and  co 
operative  thought  and  action. 

When  you  recognize  that  I  am  a  factor  and  you  recognize  me  in 
your  scheme  of  things,  you  may  then  solve  a  problem  that  when 
solved  will  make  earth  a  paradise. 

An  intelligent  man  who  has  served  a  term  in  prison  is  better  quali 
fied  to  be  sent  to  prison  congress  than  ministers  and  judges.  Most 
men  are  honest  with  themselves,  but  where  others'  interests  are  in 
volved  are  not  so  careful. 


—  37  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 
THE  CONVICT'S  WIFE  AND  CHILD. 


It  is  they  who  suffer  most — who  need  our  help  even  more  than 
the  man  himself. 

Often  they  suffer  for  food — sometimes  the  little  ones  die  for  lack 
of  medical  attention. 

The  woman  is  blamed  by  her  neighbors  for  her  husband's  sins. 

Instead  of  aiding  her  they  persecute  her.  The  other  mothers 
will  not  allow  their  children  to  play  with  her  children.  The  little 
ones  are  teased:  "Oh,  go  on;  your  daddy's  in  the  penitentiary,  our 
Ma's  don't  want  us  to  play  with  you." 

If  she  goes  to  church,  everyone  stares  at  her.  I  have  seen  Chris 
tian  women  hold  up  their  skirts  and  draw  away  from  the  wife  of  a 
convict  as  they  passed  her  in  church. 

I  have  heard  them  say:  "Isn't  it  terrible;  she  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to  put  her  head  inside  a  church  door." 

Oh,  my  dear  readers,  how  wrong  some  of  us  are  in  our  attitude 
toward  others. 

The  man  may  have  been  bad,  but  his  wife  and  children  are  just 
as  good  as  any  of  us  and  better  than  the  man  or  woman  who  points 
the  finger  of  score  at  them. 


THE  HUMANE  WORKERS'  SOCIETY,  ERIE,  PA. 

General  Public: 

To  every  one  desiring  to  better  conditions  that  make  bad  men 
and  women,  poverty  and  crime. 

Do  you  wish  to  better  conditions  which  you  know  to  exist,  that 
are  bad? 

Do  you  approve  of  helping  the  coming  generations;  making  the 
way  clearer? 

Would  you  approve  of  a  man  who  has  been  in  prison  being  at  the 
head  of  The  Humane  Workers'  Society,  one  who  knows  why  men 
are  criminals,  who  can  feel  and  understand  as  they  do,  who  has  had 
their  emotions  and  desires?  Who  can  think  as  they  do;  because  he 
has  been  one  of  them. 

Would  you  endorse  a  man  of  this  order,  did  you  feel  that  he  has 
been  cured  of  his  criminal  tendencies  and  wishes  to  make  amend  by 
devoting  his  life  to  making  men  and  conditions  better? 

The  Humane  Workers'  Society  is  to  be  an  organization  which 
aims  to  co-operate  with  churches,  society  and  the  law  in  an  effort  to 
better  the  conditions  that  endanger  our  lives,  homes  and  property. 

We  cannot  do  much  for  the  man  and  woman  who  has  already 
fallen,  but  we  can  better  the  conditions  that  make  them  fall,  so  that 
the  coming  generations  will  not  fall.  Your  children  and  mine  and 
their  children. 

—  38  — 


PRISON      POEMS. 

There  are  organizations  to  better  the  present  generation.  Why 
not  one  to  better  the  coming? 

If  an  individual  wrongs  me  and  I  kill  him,  I  haven't  bettered  the 
matter.  There  will  still  remain  thousands  who  would  do  the  same 
thing  he  did,  but  if  I  can  better  the  conditions  that  make  such  people, 
I  will  have  accomplished  something  worth  while. 

When  creeds,  organizations  and  individuals  quit  fighting  one  an 
other  and  unite  in  fighting  the  conditions,  we  will  have  then  accom 
plished  what  we  aim  to  accomplish  by  fighting  one  another.  We  aim 
to  better  conditions  but  we  really  produce  the  very  thing  we  aim  to 
prevent,  by  our  wrong  methods. 

You  have  been  trained  and  educated  along  some  line  of  business 
or  profession  and  have  been  successful  according  to  your  understand 
ing  of  certain  principles. 

Inasmuch  as  you  know  your  line  of  business  or  profession,  I  feel 
that  I  know  mine.  I  could  no  more  handle  your  affairs  than  you  could 
handle  mine.  We  are  specialists,  each  in  our  own  field. 

I  require  your  services  every  day  of  my  life.  I  pay  you  for  them. 
You  require  mine  and  should  be  willing  to  pay  me.  What  you  pay 
me  comes  back  to  you  with  interest  through  those  who  follow  in  your 
footsteps. 

We  can  help  one  another.  You  can  not  give  your  time.  Besides, 
you  would  not  know  what  to  do.  But  you  can  give  your  financial  aid 
and  in  return  I  shall  better  the  conditions  that  endanger  us  both  and 
our  children  to  come.  You  store  up  wealth  that  your  children  my  be 
provided  for,  you  build  schools  that  they  may  be  educated,  but  you 
neglect  to  better  the  awful  conditions  which  you  know  to  exist,  that 
are  making  criminals  and  moral  perverts  of  the  present  generation. 

The  welfare  of  the  coming  generations  depends  upon  the  sur 
rounding  conditions  we  leave  behind  us. 

Crime  is  a  disease  that  warps  and  disfigures  the  poor  victim's 
mind  until  he  feels  justified  in  his  crimes. 

The  remedy  that  will  cure  this  awful  disease  has  never  been 
discovered  by  Judges,  Ministers  or  Policemen.  They  have  failed. 
They  have  their  places.  They  all  pronounced  me  incurable.  They 
have  all  treated  me  according  to  their  best  knowledge  and  their 
remedies  failed. 

If  you  approve  of  my  office  and  have  confidence  in  my  integrity 
and  ability,  will  you  contribute  to  the  support  of  "The  Humane 
Workers'  Society"  and  its  founder? 

What  will  you  give  to  start  it,  and  what  will  you  pledge  to  main 
tain  it? 

EDWARD  L.  ALLEN, 
208  East  Eleventh  Street,  Erie,  Pa. 

—  40  — 


The  Humane  Workers  Society,  mention 
ed  herein  has  been  discontinued.  Thia 
book  is  sold  entirely  on  its  merits  as 
reading  matter. 


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